


Thrust and Parry

by Vulpesmellifera



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, And everyone is happy about it and has a good fucking time, Bottom John, First Time, John is small, Love Confessions, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Sherlock growls, Small Dick Fics, Small Penis, and he loves it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29377554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulpesmellifera/pseuds/Vulpesmellifera
Summary: Even when John strolls, it’s with the thrust and parry of a swagger. Which is why this shuffling he’s doing now by the doorway of Sherlock’s bedroom is worrying.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 82
Collections: SmallDickFics





	Thrust and Parry

**Author's Note:**

> When I saw the conversation on Twitter, I had to contribute my own.

Even when John strolls, it’s with the thrust and parry of a swagger. Shoulders back, feet pointed forward and hips rolling with the movement, sure and relaxed. Which is why this shuffling he’s doing now by the doorway of Sherlock’s bedroom is worrying. The kissing begun in the kitchen was tangled tongues and teeth, high-pitched moans and fingers digging into muscle. It was the ending and beginning, an absolution, a benediction.

Now, timid as a church mouse, John isn’t looking him in the eye. The wrinkle in his brow and the set to his jaw indicates something on his mind. Sherlock waits on the bed for John to take charge, to ravish him. John’s hesitating, though. Second thoughts?

Figures. Sherlock sucks in his lower lip and releases. It’s been years of dancing around each other. A string of women like obnoxious, plastic beads in loud colours revolving through the front door of 221B, wrapping themselves around John - strangling him, if you ask Sherlock. The fall, a marriage, an assassin, and a divorce. Finally, finally, Sherlock let himself sink through the deep welling of affection, accepted his re-awakened lustful urges, embraced his love and his yearning, and with that, began to show John Watson a new side of Sherlock Holmes. And John; John responded beautifully. He let himself be charmed. He seemed turned about for a short while, a minor crisis perhaps, but then he came around, and began flirting -  _ flirting _ \- with Sherlock.

The kiss. Maybe they went too quickly after the kiss. Stupid. Should have stopped right after that - how could he rush John into bed?

“You alright?” John interrupts the oncoming train wreck of his thoughts.

“Yes.” Sherlock draws on the seemingly disappearing oxygen in the room. “John. If you’re not - we don’t have to...”

“Are you having second thoughts?”

“No!” John jumps at the volume of Sherlock’s voice. “I - no, I’m not having second thoughts. I only want to make sure you’re okay to do this.”

“I am. More than okay!” John’s voice is raised. He takes a step forward.

“Alright!” Sherlock booms. “I am, too!” 

“Good!” John says, his voice approaching a roar. He takes another step and reaches the bed.

“Then what’s wrong?” Sherlock is still shouting.

John shakes his head. He squares his shoulders and purses his lips. “I suppose I don’t need to give you the speech. You’ve likely deduced it all, anyway.” He crawls onto the bed, bouncing Sherlock as he does.

“What speech is this?” His face must be making one of those ugly grimaces, but he’s so perplexed he hardly knows what to do.

“About my size,” John replies with a huff. “I usually have to tell women, just warn them ahead of time, and then I...well, let’s just say I perform very well in other ways.” He gives Sherlock a cheeky grin, and waggles his eyebrows.

“I hardly wish to hear about your past conquests. And what are you even talking about? Your size is of no issue to me. Rather makes me look all the more imposing, especially in photos.”

“I don’t mean my height!” John snaps. “You really haven’t deduced it?”

“You mean...John, are you trying to prepare me for the size of your penis?”

“Oh my god, I can’t believe this is how we’re having this conversation. Nothing is ever easy with you, is it?”

Sherlock could act hurt, but it’s true. Nothing has ever been easy between them. Frustration snarls in his chest. “John, whatever it is, I find myself hard-pressed to feel concerned. I have waited a long time for this moment,” his voice rises to a near roar at the end, “and I didn’t think it would ever actually occur even in my wildest dreams!” 

He goes quiet again. “Yet here we are. It boggles the mind.” He smooths a wrinkle in the bedspread, avoiding John’s eyes. He speaks, but it’s almost painful to let the words out from where they’ve been lodged between his ribs. “I care very much for you. You have been more than just a conductor of light, or my blogger, and any other paltry diminutive with which I have reduced you to in my ridiculous search for distance from all feelings of sentiment.” Now that the words are crowding his mouth, they spill easily from his lips, untethered. Tumbling. “I promise you whatever it is, and whatever you’re afraid I’ll think, it won’t matter, because I have waited so long for you that I will cherish whatever you’ll give me. This night will shine like a beacon in my Mind Palace, and on the days that are cold and dark, I shall remember that you are more than a conductor of light; you are the light itself, and I am guided by you.” Feeling flushed, he peeks at John.

John’s blue eyes are riveted to Sherlock’s face. Is that...a glimmer? Tears? John ducks his head, works his jaw and presses his lips together.

Sherlock waits, his heart a sped-up drumming.

“Yeah, you’re right. You’re right.” John shakes his head. “Oh bloody hell, it’s just like you. You just say these amazing things, and to you, it’s just a point of fact. But to the rest of us...Christ, Sherlock, it’s practically a declaration of love coming from you!”

Sherlock’s cheeks warm further. “It is indeed that, John Watson.”

John gazes at him again. His throat bobs when he swallows. “It’s the same for me. I - feel the same way.”

Sherlock can’t look at him anymore. His gears are turning but the clock is stopped and the whole contraption might twig, might snap and burst with springs sent flying—

“You still with me?” John asks.

Sherlock snaps back to the present. “Uh, yes.” 

“Cause that thing you do? Still kind of creepy.” John smiles. He reaches out his hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock grabs it and pulls John down to him. “Kiss me.” Their mouths meet, part, let their tongues thrust together. John kisses and nips along Sherlock’s jawline, and Sherlock clamps down against a moan. He allows a breathy release, but he refuses to let his transport take over entirely. The noises he’ll make are just too embarrassing.

John’s hot tongue travels down the column of his neck. John isn’t shy about _ his _ noises. The man hums and practically purrs as he mouths Sherlock’s collarbone. He unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt with an expertise Sherlock didn’t expect, and it fires him up like a match to kindling. He snatches John’s hand and brings it to his mouth, swirls his tongue about the fingertips. John’s body seems to go boneless and the words, “God, your mouth,” fall from his lips. 

Sherlock licks up the side of one finger and down the other, then captures John in a searing kiss. Somehow, in the kissing, John manages to open the rest of Sherlock’s shirt and shove it off his shoulders.

Sherlock rolls John away and stands by the bed to peel off his trousers and pants. He almost forgets to feel strange about his erection, bobbing with want, full and rosy, ridiculous-looking sprung from its thatch of curls. Truly a strange instrument of the body. A warning niggles at the back of his mind: will John find himself unable to push past his heteronormative shield?

But the way John stares, hungry and heavy-lidded, that little tongue of his pressed to his upper lip, tells Sherlock that there’s no chance of  _ that  _ at the moment. He slides back into the bed, slowly, not at all surprised when John grabs his face and kisses him. John starts there, but he begins a mouthy journey down Sherlock’s neck and his pecs, licks and nibbles his nipples, and slides one hand over Sherlock’s prick, as if to test the weight of it, touch it and finger the tip. It’s been so long since anyone touched him there, and the sensation pulls a heady gasp from him, dizzies his head with desire. 

“Now, I want to see you. All of you,” Sherlock murmurs. His heart races, and every nerve ending feels ablaze.

John pulls off his jumper and his vest. Sherlock’s eyes map everything - the slope of John’s shoulders, the valley of his sternum, the gently rising plateaus of his pecs. The dip of his belly button. John steps out of his trousers, and Sherlock’s eyes follow the curve of his smooth thighs. A trail of hairs surrounds his belly button and disappears beneath his pants.

“Show me,” he says, greedy for this so very private part of John Watson.

John draws in a deep breath and yanks his pants down, kicks them away, and straightens up.

It’s perfect, like a small egg lying in a nest of silver and ashen brown hairs. This,  _ this _ is what John is so worried about? When from what Sherlock can see, he is such a perfect specimen? One that would have been hailed by the Greeks! Sherlock’s mouth is dry, but he manages to say, in a low voice, “Aristophanes said the ideal man has a gleaming chest, broad shoulders, a tiny tongue, strong buttocks, and a little prick.” He casts his gaze up and down. “I am inclined to agree with the playwright.”

John breaks into a smile. “If anyone’s a prick here, it’s not just me.”

“No, but you’re still a little one.”

John snatches a pillow from the head of the bed. “Which makes you a big one!” He wings it at Sherlock, who lets the pillow hit his face, and laughs, not expecting the armful of John Watson to follow, slamming him against the mattress. They wrestle for a moment before both are flushed, laughing, and naked against the bedsheets. 

It’s the happiest Sherlock has ever felt while nude with another person.

The laughter quickly turns to kisses, and this time, there’s no stopping them. Their bodies run against each other, and moans erupt from their throats - even Sherlock’s.

“God, your voice does things to me,” John says. 

“I want to suck you,” Sherlock growls against John’s throat.

John releases a ragged breath of air and falls against the pillows as Sherlock settles himself between his legs, kissing John’s belly. He tastes of a mild soap, and below that, the natural taste of skin: the slightest hint of salt and copper. Sherlock nips at the softness of John’s pudge, making him jerk and smile, his soft huff of laughter revealing the bone white of his teeth. 

Sherlock buries his nose to inhale John’s scent - musk and sweat. His cock is only inches from Sherlock’s face, proud and stiff. He flicks his tongue out, giving it an experimental lick, which draws a strangled moan from John. Sherlock blows on the wetness, watching as John writhes from his attentions, and the little prick twitches. He licks again, and then closes his mouth over the swollen member, taking it all in, sealing his mouth around the base. With John’s size, he can easily suck it all down, his nose buried in the thatch of pubic hair. The sounds John makes are an orchestra of gasps and whimpers, and Sherlock plays his cock like he’s composing, bobbing his head, working his tongue, and humming. 

John’s hips twitch, and his thighs fall further apart, which Sherlock takes as encouragement to stroke his fingers down the insides of them. He follows the musculature to the junction of thigh and gluteal, and traces his fingers over the roll of buttocks and notches a fingertip into the arse crack. 

Would John let him touch him there? He moves his hand back up to cradle John’s balls as he sucks harder on the man’s cock. When he presses against John’s perineum, he’s rewarded with an exhale of “Ohhh, Sherlock.” Sherlock strokes downward, feathers touches along John’s rim. 

“Yessss,” John hisses. 

Sherlock’s pulse hammers. He releases John’s cock with a wet pop and replaces it with his own fingers in his mouth. He catches John watching him, heavy-lidded and cheeks flushed. Sherlock’s fellating two of his fingers, and he can tell John likes it.

He pulls his fingers from his mouth and, keeping his eyes riveted on John’s, moves them to the crease of John’s arse, and gently probes the opening. John’s head falls back on the pillow as Sherlock’s middle finger slides into the hot clench of John’s arse. 

Sherlock can’t help the swoop of glee as he feels John bear down on his finger. John’s done this sort of thing before, clearly, and that works in Sherlock’s favour. He rubs the little nub when his finger finds it, and circles around it as he goes back to bobbing on John’s cock. Never has a blowjob been so enjoyable. Usually, his jaw tires and his cheeks ache after a few minutes, but this, listening to John moan and watching his body writhe while Sherlock’s mouth works his cock - this is heaven. He can’t stop rutting his hips against the mattress, feeling the smooth glide of the sheet against his own cock. 

“Wait,” John says and taps his head, his voice breathy. “Wait.”

Sherlock lifts his head, stops his hips from chasing the high of orgasm. “John?”

“I want...I don’t know what I want, but Christ I’m about to blow.”

“You like anal play,” Sherlock says in a low growl.

John whines. He  _ whines. _ “Yeah,” he admits.

Sherlock removes his finger and sits back on his heels. “Turn over.”

John’s breath hitches, but he flips over onto his stomach. Sherlock has to pause for a moment, taking note of the expanse of John’s back, the thickness of his middle, and the crest of his arse. He’s going to take this man apart.

He grips John’s arse cheeks and spreads them. John’s answering moan is all the confirmation he needs. “I’m looking at you, John,” Sherlock says. “Observing.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” is John’s breathless reply. His hole twitches, a dusky rosebud between the hills of his arse, which are nearly smothered by the size of Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock bows his head and licks each of his thumbs, which he then uses to press along the opposite edges of John’s rim. John’s hips wiggle against the mattress as Sherlock uses his thumbs to part his arsehole. He follows that with his tongue, tasting John in his most intimate place. 

“Fuck!” John yelps.

Sherlock smiles and licks him again. “Hold yourself open for me. I want to see everything.”

John groans as he uses his hands to part his cheeks, spreading himself open for Sherlock’s benefit. His hips squirm as he does. 

“You’re perfect, John. Perfect. I can see everything.” A few scant hairs around the furl, John’s small hands on the swell of his cheeks, his thighs spread. It’s a perfect sight. “You like that, right? The idea of being fully exposed to me. Me observing your tight arsehole.”

“Fuck, Sherlock.” John whimpers into the pillow. Sherlock bends forward and begins licking again. Thrusting, fucking with his tongue.

“Mmm,” he says. “If I had an anal plug, I’d use it on you. Push it in and out. I’ll just have to use my fingers…” He tests. “Maybe my cock.”

“Stick it in me,” John says. “Stick your cock in me. I want it.”

Sherlock lifts his head.  _ What? Now? _ “I—I hadn’t planned—”

“I’ve got lube. Please.” John rolls over and sits up. “I’ve imagined it.” His lips are puffy and his eyes are big and pupil-blown.

Sherlock could not get any harder. “What have you imagined?”

“Riding you.” John leans closer and nuzzles into his neck, behind his ear. Whispers, “Shooting my come on you so hard it hits your face.”

That slams Sherlock right in the gut. He has to squeeze his prick for a modicum of relief. “Yes.”

John scrambles off the bed and out of his room. His feet pound across the floor of 221b and up the stairs. Hopefully, Mrs Hudson doesn’t come out to see what all the racket is, or she might get a full moon glance of John’s nakedness going up the stairs to his own room. 

Sherlock stretches out on the bed, enjoying the hot liquid feeling of lust in his bones.

No indignant squawks ring through the hall as John flies back down from his room. His feet thump along the floor towards Sherlock’s room until John appears in the doorway again. Safe to assume she stuck to her own rooms, then.

And John, John is staring at Sherlock with a dirty smile and a twinkle in his eyes. “Lay back.”

Sherlock does as he’s told, his stomach flipping in anticipation. 

John throws a condom packet and a bottle of lube on the bed before he climbs on, and straddles Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock’s prick points at his belly, a strand of precome dripping from the tip and touching his skin. 

“This for me, then?” John says.

“All for you.” He manages to act smooth, he thinks, but honestly he can hardly believe this is really happening. 

John snatches up the condom and tears it open. “Jesus, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.” He rolls it down Sherlock’s cock, then grabs the lube. It’s not long before Sherlock’s cock is wet and hot between John’s hands. Sherlock can’t stop the sounds he’s making, small, breathy, choked whimpers and moans. 

John pours more lube on his hands. “You wanna watch?”

Sherlock isn’t sure what he means at first, but he nods. John turns around, on all fours. He reaches his lubed fingers to his arsehole, pushing the lubricant inside of him. His balls hang between his thighs, and Sherlock can see the seam that leads to his hole, and the fingers shoving inside.

“John.” Sherlock can barely breathe at the sight. 

John’s moaning and panting. “I love playing with my arse.”

“You are full of surprises.”

“You like it?”

“It’s everything.” Sherlock is transfixed, watching John’s shiny fingers pumping in and out. “I wouldn’t have thought—”

“I’m glad I could finally surprise the great Sherlock Holmes.” John turns back around, bracketing Sherlock with his knees as he balances himself over Sherlock’s slippery cock.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

John winks. “Believe it.” 

It’s slow at first, as John’s thigh muscles clench and tremble, and his arse muscles bear down. Small, increments. Sherlock lies very still, watching the grimace on John’s face. John is so expressive. He winces when the stretch hurts, but then he’ll tip his chin up, his facial muscles will go slack, and his mouth will hang open with a soft grunt or moan. 

He’s gorgeous. His chest gleams with sweat, his tongue touches his lips, and Sherlock knows his arse is bunching and working his way down on Sherlock’s cock. His prick flags for a moment, and Sherlock reaches down to touch it, stroke it. John’s brow wrinkles and he whines. It isn’t long before he’s worked himself all the way down on Sherlock’s cock. His hand takes over for Sherlock, wanking himself in a ring formed by his forefinger and thumb. 

Sherlock continues to lie still as John begins to pump himself up and down, his hips gyrating and his left hand working his prick, while his right hand pulls on his nipples. 

“Okay.” John’s voice is a low husk. “Fuck me, Sherlock. Grab me and fuck me.”

Sherlock growls as he closes his large hands around John’s hips, plants his feet flat on the bed, and fucks up into John’s body. John’s riding him, glorious in the light of the room, head thrown back and eyes closed, a litany of swears and “oh god, oh god” falling from his lips. Sherlock bounces him, chasing the white-hot light of pleasure, his dick grasped by John’s tight arse. 

“Yeah, that’s it, bloody hell, I knew this would be good.” John pulls on his prick, and Sherlock watches, entranced, as the spongy head appears and disappears in the ring formed by John’s fingers. It’s glorious and it’s  _ hot. _ His stomach tenses, the unfurling explosion of orgasm reverberating through him as his dick shoots come into the condom.

“Oh god, did you just come inside me? Yeah?” John wanks faster. “I’m gonna shoot all over you.”

“Do it, I want it!” Sherlock’s voice cracks. “I want you to come on me.”

John’s prick flexes, and a string of pearly white semen spatters across Sherlock’s skin, hitting his chest, and his chin. As blissed out as he feels from his own orgasm, he can’t help but touch the warm come on his face, and lick it off his fingers.

John sags over him, and catches sight of him doing it. “Good god, I knew it would be good with you, but Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Mmmm,” is Sherlock’s only response. His cock slides out from inside John as it softens, and John lands on the bed beside Sherlock. Panting. Eyes closed. Body relaxed.

Sherlock licks his lips and lets his head fall back against the pillow. It feels so good to have John’s spunk on his chest. He won’t like it for long, but for right now, while it’s warm and liquidy, it’s an undeniable sign of what he and John have just done. 

John sits up. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes closed, his mouth pulled up in a smile. “You are.” 

He winces when John removes the condom from his sensitive cock. “You stay right here, you lazy arse. I’ll get a flannel and clean up. And then we’re sleeping, and we’re doing it again tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir."

John snorts.

Sherlock opens one eye. He doesn’t miss it as John strolls toward the bathroom, his thrust and parry of a swagger returned. 

He closes that one eye, and smiles. 


End file.
